


Love Knows No Boundaries

by Ivory_Winter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivory_Winter/pseuds/Ivory_Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock wake up on Westminster Bridge and find themselves in 19th century London. While they try to figure out what happened and how to get home, they must adapt to new surroundings, their feelings for each other, and investigate the most enthralling unsolved case of all time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work posted to this site, I'm terrifically glad to finally be here at last! Enjoy!

John didn't immediately realize that he was conscious. He could be forgiven for this however; his numbed senses were bound to confuse him, especially considering that he hadn't had occasion to experience such disorientation since his shoulder surgery in Afghanistan. Back then, gargantuan amounts of pain medication had left him feeling next to nothing. But his mind couldn't even make a connection to this older incident, as it still was in disarray. The only thoughts that he could formulate were that he didn't know what was happening and why he felt, or rather didn't feel, the way he did.

The blood violently throbbing in his head reminded him that it was all very real, that it was no fabrication of his imagination. This caused escalating panic to set in. While his mind accumulated coherency, he became aware that his fingertips were scrabbling against something cold and damp. The same something pressed sharply into his exposed nose and cheek, and as more feeling accompanied his reviving mental capacities, he noticed biting cold wind attacking his skin. Baker Street never felt so cold.

It occurred to him to try opening his eyes, but the heavy obstinate lids refused to budge even slightly. Not being able to complete such a simple task did not bode well, he realized. He thought of his other senses, but did not hold out much hope for them. The growing desperation and fear caused by his own ignorance were not helping in the slightest.

Hearing, he thought suddenly. That could prove to be useful. The ear that wasn't pressed into the ground tried to pick up on any nearby sounds. Nothing. But it wasn't just ordinary 'nothing'; it was complete absence of sound. It was like someone had soundproofed his ears from the surrounding world, smothering him in unnatural silence. It was disconcerting to say the least.

The feeling was cut short by a high-pitched whine that began to assault his ears, becoming louder until its shrillness made him wince with discomfort. Other symptoms began to emerge. His chest constricted and tightened, and his breath came in short pants, leaving him with an unsatisfying amount of oxygen.

And then agony. His throat seared with pain, and his body arched off the ground in protest. His hands seemed to forget their former inactivity and jumped to his ears and neck, as if their presence could somehow make the pain stop. John didn't even hear himself scream wholeheartedly for it to end.

The cacophony and torture ceased abruptly. John lay still and unmoving, fearing that movement would prompt it to return. The eerie quietness was gone, testified by the sound of his ragged breathing. He sought to calm himself, assess the situation with a collected mind. He wondered again how he could possibly have ended up like this, supposing that a case with Sherlock was the most likely answer.

His eyes forgot their former inactivity and shot open as he remembered the detective. Dark foggy surroundings greeted his eyes. He had no memory of coming to a place like this, although that fact did not truly surprise him at this point. But he dismissed that observation hurriedly; finding Sherlock was his main priority. If John was in this condition, he was terrified that Sherlock might be in a much graver one.

That was unless, of course, Sherlock wasn't here with him at all. Christ, John couldn't help hoping that he wasn't alone. He didn't want Sherlock to be even remotely hurt, of course he didn't. But the idea of being alone here didn't appeal to his subtle sense of selfishness. He couldn't even imagine getting home in one piece without assistance. Although the thought that Sherlock mightbe harmed in some way was enough to pump fierce determination into him. He had to find Sherlock; he had to.

He tried to move his arm and use some momentum to propel himself up from the ground. A sharp pain shot through it when he placed and put weight on his extended arm. He crumpled back to the ground, face colliding with the pavement. His throat gave out an involuntary sharp yelp before he could even consider trying to block out the discomfort. It alerted a nearby someone to his presence.

"John?" called an anxious familiar voice. "Where are you?"

John prayed that he had correctly identified the voice reaching out to him. He tried to call out Sherlock's name, but his throat was too raw and dry from his screaming to articulate anything. His attempts came out more as strangled whimpers. His eyes fluttered closed again, though he barely could tell the difference between the resulting darkness and the obscurity of the night and fog. No, he thought, someone was looking for him, Sherlock was looking for him; he had to keep his eyes open! He opened them again and heard the sounds of hurried footsteps coming towards him from the enveloping dark environs.

The footsteps stopped and John sensed that someone was kneeling next to him, an urgent hand placed on his back and another turning his face so that it was no longer facing the ground. He groaned at the sensation.

"John, look at me. Open your eyes!"

When had his eyes shut again? He battled to open them and was rewarded with the sight of Sherlock's concerned face swimming just above his own. He seemed extraordinarily close. He might have felt Sherlock's breath on his cheek if he had felt less numb. He rarely saw Sherlock so close to him, but it wasn't like he could really take in all the little details that he missed when they upheld the traditional personal space between them. John could have sworn that he heard Sherlock mutter 'thank god' under his breath, but he attributed that to his still hazy senses.

"I'm going to turn you over. This… This will probably hurt, brace yourself. On the count of three."

Sherlock accordingly turned him. John couldn't help hissing in pain as his injured shoulder and arm scraped along the rough ground. He tried to slur out Sherlock's name, but could only make a vague shushing sound. He missed Sherlock's pained expression on witnessing his outburst of pain. However, he did notice when Sherlock's long fingers began to delicately poke at his skin, examining his body for injuries. John tried to let out a mingled noise of indignation and pain, although it was mostly the latter.

"I'm merely ascertaining the extent of your injuries. Your shoulder is dislocated. It normally wouldn't be this painful, but considering that it is the same shoulder wounded in Afghanistan, the additional strain and irritation is not exactly ideal. Your other injuries are minor, a few scratches and bruises and a raw throat. I have some water for that. I'm going to move you into a sitting position."

Sherlock's deceptively strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and waist and raised his body. He was propped up against something more vertical and solid. The arms then vanished and John felt something being pressed against his lips with a command to drink. He felt water running into his mouth and he swallowed greedily, feeling relief starting to spread down to the base of his throat.

And then he felt his shoulder snap into place with a sickening noise. John choked and spluttered at the unexpected pain, his mouth expelling the water that he had been enjoying up to that point.

"I had to reset it before the shock and numbness of the situation wore off. It would make it considerably more painful," explained Sherlock in an apologetic tone, or at least, as close to apologetic as he could sound.

"Not while drinking," John rasped at last when he found his voice, although the weak volume made him sound much less threatening. John craned his neck to try and view the shoulder in question, prodding with his finger to see if it had set correctly. "I'll have to make a sling for that," he muttered when he took his hand away.

Sherlock did not bother replying, putting his hand through a rip in John's shirt near the neck and rubbing soothing circles with his fingertips over the offended area. The touch was comforting now that John was beginning to feel the effects of the cold more and more. It should have felt odd, John's mind reminded him; something like this was almost intimate in nature. But he found that he didn't care; the touch felt good, and he wasn't about to stop Sherlock anytime soon.

Sherlock continued the motion for a few minutes until the pain had subsided and John's head was becoming clearer. Sherlock gave him a look, which asked 'better?' to which John stiffly nodded in reply; he was feeling about as well as he was ever going to under the circumstances. Sherlock, who had maintained a crouched position beside John, now seated himself beside John, staring thoughtfully out into the surrounding fog. This action prompted John's next question.

"How did we get here? Where exactly is 'here'?"

"Westminster Bridge."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, considering that Sherlock had to answer the latter, less important question first, but he didn't push it, assuming that he had a reason to ignore the more pressing issue. Instead he asked, "How do you know?"

"Because, unlike you, I did not sustain any injuries or lose my coherency."

"It's nothing to do with my head not being screwed on properly. It's dark, so how can you know for sure?" John asked with a pronounced scowl.

"I had to run some distance in my efforts to get to you, and I briefly took in my surroundings. Additional observation has confirmed my initial hypothesis. The width and other architectural features make it quite distinctive even in the fog. Although," he paused, "it does look somewhat different now that I am able to observe it more closely."

"Different? It's Westminster Bridge, how could it be different?"

"It appears to be newer, and the paint is a slightly different shade and more carefully maintained."

John shook his head. "Look, I don't really care about the paint right now. Just tell me what happened. You do know, don't you?" John's voice began to grow in strength as questions bubbled to the surface of his mind. "How did we get here?"

But Sherlock paid him no heed, instead muttering under his breath and not noticing John's bewilderment giving away to severe annoyance, as his head was still too woozy to follow what the detective was saying in that fast voice of his.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed. The detective turned to look at him with surprise, like he hadn't expected to see John sitting beside him. John felt a slight pain as he identified Sherlock's expression; the one that indicated that he had become unaware of John's very existence until he had been forced to remember. It was a pain that had become less novel with the more time he spent with his flatmate, but still hurt nonetheless. "I don't understand what's happening," John finished quietly, cursing the helpless that had bled into his voice.

Sherlock frowned. "I –"

He stopped speaking abruptly and cocked his head, as if he had heard something and was trying to listen for it again. In the next moment, Sherlock pressed himself and John back against the wall, hiding in the shadows and the fog, and thoroughly invading John's personal space. John was about to yelp in pain as his injured arm was jostled, when a gloved hand covered his mouth and the ensuing noise of pain. "Apologies," Sherlock whispered in his ear, before turning his face away in the direction of the noise. John followed his gaze and saw two men walking past arm in arm, unaware of their presence.

As soon as they were out of earshot Sherlock removed his hand, but still stayed pressed up tight to John. John's body had become sore with tension, his muscles flexing wildly at being in such close proximity to the detective. To be touching and so close to a man who typically tried to avoid human touch was certainly not something he experienced everyday. John casually reminded himself that he needed oxygen, and exhaled a stuttering breath.

"We will remain here in case anyone else approaches," Sherlock murmured by way of explanation.

After taking a few moments to ease his quick beating heart John spoke. "Did you see what they were wearing?" he whispered. "It looked like something out of a costume drama, Andrew Davies kind of stuff." He saw a frown form on Sherlock's face, and misinterpreted it. "What, Mrs. Hudson made me watch Pride and Prejudice with her!" he said defensively.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't presume to care about what television you watch, either with or without Mrs. Hudson."

John scowled. "Then what's this about? Is this some kind of prank? It sure as hell isn't funny."

"That was not a costume. That was authentic clothing."

"They bought vintage suits?"

Sherlock growled in frustration. "Authentic, John. As in, not a costume and certainly not vintage. One can easily see from here that those clothes looked new. And no one wearing a costume or vintage would be able to wear that outfit with such ease without practice, the amount of practice that only comes with years of wear unless you are a man of my capabilities. Also, that degree of clothing detail is very rarely replicated so thoroughly or accurately."

John's patience was wearing thin as he was still not catching onto what Sherlock was talking about. "But what does that mean, how does that tell us what the bloody hell is going on?"

"We are on Westminster Bridge but it doesn't look the same. Men are walking around wearing suits reminiscent of the nineteenth century. Persistent heavy fog, almost like…" Sherlock paused to gather his thoughts, before he looked up at John quickly. "John. I suspect that somehow…"

Realization finally dawned on John. He inhaled sharply. "No. No. That is absolutely impossible, you know that better than I do!"

"It is the only explanation that makes sense!" Sherlock hissed out in frustration. "It is the only explanation of all the facts! This is nineteenth century London. Somehow, we are in nineteenth century London."

There was a brief pause while John surveyed the detective carefully. "I may have figured this out rather late Sherlock, because god knows that I've seen you come up with enough ridiculous deductions and behave erratically around the flat, but you are absolutely insane," he said slowly. "Thoroughly insane. Because there is no way, and I mean no way, that we are in the nineteenth century. No fucking way."

*

"This is all a dream; I will wake up in a minute and be back home in my bed. Everything will be normal again. Maybe if I just pinch myself really hard... Fuck me that hurt!" John yelped as he rubbed at his self-inflicted wound.

After a few minutes had passed it dawned on Sherlock that John wasn't going to be convinced any time soon, especially after his failed attempts at calming John down. Considering the humour that John was in, he probably didn't want to be calmed down. After waiting while John paced violently, muttering expletives under his breath, Sherlock decided to not waste any more time in attempting to make John come to terms with the situation before he was ready.

During his foul-mouthed monologue, John failed to notice that Sherlock had slipped off and disappeared. John stopped abruptly mid rant, and looked around for the detective a few minutes later when his senses had partially returned to him. "Sherlock?" His words were greeted with silence. While John had briefly forgotten his tired and aching body during his frantic pacing, he was sharply reminded of it now that he had stopped and became aware of how alone he was.

"Where have you gone off to now? You can't tell me these things and then run off! Sherlock!"

John called for Sherlock a few more times and received no reply. Realizing that it would be foolish to go looking for Sherlock in the dense fog when John had no idea where he was and where to look, John sat back down against the wall, waiting for Sherlock to return.

He didn't have to wait long it happened, although that small blessing did little to ease John's bad humour. After an insufferable ten-minute wait, Sherlock appeared once more beside him. There was one noticeable change however.

"What are you wearing?" John inquired in a hostile tone, as Sherlock thrust a bundle of clothes into his arms. Sherlock was dressed similarly to the two men who had passed them earlier. A shabby black suit hung off of his lean frame, with a cravat tightly adorning his neck and a hat on top of his messy curls. John couldn't help noticing that Sherlock's new attire emphasized and accentuated his slim profile and long legs, despite it being somewhat loose fitting.

"I am wearing clothes. Honestly John, I thought that even you could surmise as much," Sherlock said, punctuating the verbal jab with his typical eye roll. "We can't go around in our normal clothes; we would attract too much unwanted attention. So put those on, and then we can examine our surroundings." As Sherlock spoke, his fingers fidgeted at some stray threads emerging from the scantily sewn buttons of his new jacket. He knotted the threads around his fingers and severed them with a quick tug. The brief action had John mesmerized, but he soon came back to himself and realized what Sherlock had said, and made a reply.

"No."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting this response. "No?"

"No. This is some kind of crazy joke. By wearing those clothes I'm accepting that this is all real. And I have by no means accepted that, and furthermore, I don't intend to do so."

"The sooner you start taking this in, the easier everything will be for the both of us. We need to start acting; sitting around and denying our situation will not help us to resolve it. Think about it John, how would someone go about making such an elaborate hoax? And why? What is the point in making us think that we have traveled back in time?"

"Well, Anderson gets pissed at you often enough."

Sherlock scoffed. "Anderson does not have the intelligence to pull this off; you know that as well as I do. No, the only person clever enough to execute something like this is Moriarty, and even you should be able to tell that his flamboyance doesn't extend this far. So put on the clothes and then we can start exploring."

"Where did you even get these from?"

"Surely my interactions with Lestrade have shown you that it is no difficult feat to take items from unobservant people. And almost everyone is unobservant excepting myself."

"You stole them then?"

Sherlock smirked. "Semantics, John."

As John opened his mouth to protest once more, Sherlock cut him off with a hard expression, saying, "If you don't start putting them on now, I will undress you myself. I am confident that with your injured shoulder, I can easily overpower you. It's your decision."

John felt the heat rise to his face as Sherlock spoke, although he wasn't entirely sure why that was. Was it just the idea of Sherlock forcibly trying to strip him down? Yes, John thought vehemently, that was purely the reason, and there was no need to try to pinpoint the emotion further. With that, he turned his back to Sherlock for some modicum of privacy and began to undress.

A few minutes later John had changed into the essentials, but only after swearing at the cold when he had stripped down to his boxers. Maneuvering into his new shirt and jacket also proved difficult considering that he had used his own torn and dirty shirt as a makeshift sling for his shoulder underneath, but he managed. With these articles of clothing in place, he was almost ready. The fingers of his free hand still stumbled hopelessly over the cravat however, even after a minute of surveying it and attempting to picture how it could be transformed from the material in his hand to the elegant knots around Sherlock's neck. He doubted that he could manage it even with the use of both hands.

After he struggled for another few seconds, suddenly Sherlock strode over to him. He swatted John's hands away and looped it around his neck. Sherlock deftly tied and knotted it so quickly that John had to bite his tongue to prevent his typical exclamations of wonder that made Sherlock look so smug when he heard them, no matter how nonchalant he might attempt to act.

"How do you even know how to do this? Or do I want to know?" John asked when Sherlock had finished.

Sherlock chuckled quietly. "I've certainly had occasions to practice, although they would probably fall under your 'I don't want to know' category that you have established. I'll have to teach you how to tie it later. You'll need to become familiar with it, and you certainly won't be able to pick it up yourself without my instruction."

"Because we obviously don't have better things to be doing than learning how to tie cravats and inflating your ego, do we?" said John with a slight smile.

"Quite," said Sherlock, returning the half-grin.

John's face turned solemn all of a sudden as the implications of Sherlock's words struck, the implication from the need to learn how to dress properly in this time period. "Is this honestly happening right now? You really aren't joking are you?"

"No."

"How are we going to get home?" John tried to keep the desperation out of his voice but he couldn't hide it from Sherlock. Sherlock always saw right through him when he wanted to, it seemed.

In a rare show of comfort, Sherlock hesitantly put his hand on John's uninjured shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. "I don't know. But if we arrived here despite all the impossibilities, there must be a way back, however improbable. That is all we can be certain of for now."

After his brief speech, Sherlock then turned and began to walk away from John, intent on not wasting any more time by fretting needlessly. Somewhat reluctantly, John started to follow Sherlock off of the bridge and into the nearby streets in complete silence. John was accustomed to keeping his mouth shut while Sherlock was deep in his observation mode, which Sherlock had clearly snapped into. But that was not the sole reason for his reticence on this occasion. John just didn't know what to say. He was in a permanent state of bewilderment, unable to fully take anything in. While part of his brain screamed at him that the whole thing was impossible, another part was telling him that Sherlock was right. And since when had Sherlock ever been wrong on something as big and important as this?

Another part of John's mind also couldn't help but feel unbelievably self-conscious, acutely aware of his uncomfortable new attire. It was a small concern in the general scheme of things, but it persisted anyway. He saw other strangers walking past him completely at ease, or seemingly so. They were obliviously secure in the world in which they found themselves. The ability to carry themselves purposefully and confidently was easy to see in them. John envied them. He had never felt so conspicuous and out of place, even in Afghanistan.

Unlike Sherlock who strode on quickly and gracefully, John slowed his pace to accustom himself to his surroundings and his guise. He kept a close eye on Sherlock so that he didn't lose track of him in the fog, but he made no effort to remain strictly by his side at all times. They both needed some time to themselves after all. They walked on like this for a few minutes, before John knocked straight into Sherlock's side, who had stopped suddenly in front of the doctor, which John had failed to notice. Sherlock's hand shot out to steady him, before gently turning John to face one of the buildings.

John gasped for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. "It's still here!" he breathed.

"I recall Mrs. Hudson once saying that there used to be plenty of vacancies here even when the building was originally built. Perhaps we should enquire as to whether they have any lodgings available," said Sherlock with an amused smirk.

With that he strode to the front door and put a pale hand on the large brass knocker. Above it, emblazoned in gold characters, was an eerily familiar sequence.

221B


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One or two swear words in this chapter, be warned!

A little under half an hour later John was upstairs in Baker Street, squirming while Sherlock charmed his way into the heart of the middle-aged landlady. Once the door opened and he had stated their business, she looked Sherlock over with appraising eyes. She proceeded to immediately invite them up for tea and to haggle with Sherlock over the rent. John felt something between awkwardness and jealousy while he watched her dote on his best friend. The feeling was only appeased by the fact that Sherlock's affableness and her star struck gaze wouldn't last long given Sherlock's track record of rudeness. Imagining the inevitable incident that would lead to the landlady no longer viewing Sherlock with kind eyes made John smile slightly through his present annoyance.

In that moment however, Sherlock's transformed personality was a decided advantage; it was what secured them a reduced rent on the two currently available rooms, along with Sherlock's attractive face and somewhat flirtatious manner, John grudgingly admitted. Conveniently, and eerily, the two vacant rooms were the precise rooms that Sherlock and John occupied in modern day Baker Street. This familiarity would have pleased John if it weren't for the fact that a vast proportion of the building he had seen so far was almost unrecognizable. If the alien décor and furnishings of the living room were anything to go by, his old bedroom would probably look entirely different once he finally got to see it.

While he took in his surroundings, John could not fail to be impressed by Sherlock's continued acting. John had seen him act before, but to see Sherlock slip so easily into another version of himself always struck John as incredible. Staying silent to observe the transformation was simple for John, although his silence in this instance could also be attributed to his fear of speaking in a manner that did not correspond to the time period. He secretly wished that he had paid more attention when watching those period dramas with Mrs. Hudson. Maybe then he would have had a better grasp of how to speak and conduct himself.

His struggle to comprehend everything came to a head a few minutes later when Sherlock addressed him nonchalantly as 'Watson'. John would have stammered in an undignified manner had he not swallowed a mouthful of tea at that precise moment. The unexpectedness of the name hit him full force, resulting in said tea going down the wrong way. John was left with a coughing fit and red tinged cheeks, a situation for which he couldn't think of a quick explanation. The landlady looked at him uneasily during his episode, already having viewed him with barely concealed disdain on seeing the dirty sling underneath his jacket. John must have looked a strange sight next to the dapper Sherlock. His odd behaviour seemed to confirm her view that Holmes' friend was suspicious. She started addressing herself exclusively to Sherlock from that point on.

John couldn't help that the name had produced such a profound effect on him however. He had to admit that his heart had drooped a bit on hearing it, sounding far too formal for the close relationship that he and Sherlock normally shared. Wasn't Sherlock the one who had insisted that John call him by his first name after only knowing him a day? After all this time, 'Watson' sounded so foreign. There was no intimacy, nothing personal in it.

John shook himself suddenly. What was he thinking? 'Intimacy' and 'personal' were hardly words that he associated with Sherlock anyway, much less reasons to feel disappointed over something that made no sense to him! John needed to stop running off on these trains of thought. They were inappropriate and unhelpful, and most of all, foolish. He didn't understand where these sentiments came from and what they meant, nor did he want to know. Ignoring them was by far the easiest option, and the most sensible one. They would pass with time.

John's musings were interrupted when he saw Sherlock remove money from his jacket pocket, the landlady having finally gotten around to asking for a down payment on the rent. He raised an eyebrow, wishing that he didn't know exactly how Sherlock had acquired the money. His former indignation at such petty theft had relaxed into indifference once he realized that Sherlock wouldn't stop, even when John berated him for it afterwards. As if the detective could read his thoughts, he shot a subtle smirk in John's direction when he handed the money over. Smug bastard, John thought, while still feeling the urge to giggle happily at the man's antics. Sherlock was just being so typically… Sherlock.

The landlady finally took her leave, mentioning something about running some errands. The two men were alone again at last. Sherlock rose from his seat and moved over to the window, peaking out at the streets below. John took the opportunity to loosen his cravat, which had been threatening to cut off the blood supply to his neck ever since Sherlock had first fastened it around him. That finished, John found himself at a loss for something to do, a state that was occurring with disturbing frequency he noted.

He huffed in his chair, cursing his helplessness. Looking over at Sherlock, John envied the other man for his calmness. Sherlock could be thrown into a whole new world and barely bat an eyelid. If the experience had rattled the detective at all, he was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. Even back on Westminster Bridge he had sounded more excited than anything else. This observation also served to remind John that he hadn't had the chance to ask all of his questions back then. He cleared his throat, prompting Sherlock to turn slightly to listen to him.

"Do you remember anything?" John asked. "About what happened before we got here, I mean? Something must have triggered all of this."

Sherlock shook his head. "Despite my normally excellent memory, I have no recollection of what happened. Without that information I cannot hope to discover what triggered our presence here. Do you remember anything? Every detail is vital, even if it is only something fragmentary."

John closed his eyes, trying his best to remember and visualize anything that instinctively sprung to mind. Sherlock had taught him this technique a few months ago after John had asked Sherlock one too many times where he had left his keys or phone. Taught was a generous word for it in fact, as it was rather forced upon him. John sighed and tried to clear his thoughts of that particular incident, focusing his thoughts on what he needed now. "I… I remember that Mycroft came to visit. I talked to you after he left, I must've been out when he arrived. I can remember that quite vividly."

"I have no memory of that either. Describe our conversation to me. It might stimulate my brain into action."

**

"Sherlock? Are you here?" a bedraggled John called out as he stumbled into the kitchen. There was no reply. John peaked into the living room and saw Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, eyes closed and fingers drumming on his pajama-clad thighs.

"Mycroft's gone then?"

Sherlock snorted. "Obviously. Too afraid to stay to witness the two of us meeting? Even if it means a soaking in the typical London weather because you are incapable of remembering to bring an umbrella when you go out?" he replied.

"What do you mean?" John spluttered.

Sherlock opened his eyes and a lean hand stretched out to grab John's laptop from the coffee table. "You 'conveniently' left before Mycroft arrived and took approximately twenty minutes longer to buy the shopping than usual; you can make the trip in half an hour, but today it took fifty minutes. Looking at the size of your bag, you did not buy more than usual, so why the extra time? Furthermore, you did not take an umbrella, despite it being clearly overcast when you left the flat. You dislike lingering in the rain, yet your appearance tells me that you have been thoroughly drenched. It is easy to conclude that you left hurriedly when I mentioned Mycroft, forgetting your umbrella in your haste, and then proceeded to dawdle on the journey home."

John looked at him open mouthed. "You seriously know how long it takes me on average to get the shopping?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of all my deductions, that is what you take issue with? Fine, yes. I have not deleted the information because occasionally when you buy me materials for my experiments it helps to know when to expect their arrival." He paused slightly before adding, "In any case, I thought you said Mycroft wasn't intimidating, or were you trying to display some kind of misplaced masculinity in order to impress me?"

John laughed as he turned into the kitchen to start putting the groceries away. "He isn't intimidating. I thought you knew me better than to accuse me of 'misplaced masculinity'. Besides, it's not like I'd be using my male charms on you. Any of my attempts to impress you usually fall terribly flat," he teased, although internally recognizing that his last sentence was painfully true. "I thought that you two could do with some alone time," John continued quickly. "I'm sick of always being the mediator. It wouldn't kill you to have a civil conversation without me being there. Christ, I'm surprised now that I could ever forget an umbrella again considering what you did to his the last time he was over."

He sat himself opposite Sherlock, who had replaced the laptop and was now staring into space, although the slight curl pulling at his lips indicated that he had been listening to John's musings. Seeing Sherlock appreciate his joke made John break out into laughter of his own.

"Any breakthroughs on the case?" John asked after his giggles had subsided.

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing of note. I had wondered if Mycroft might be of some help for once, but apparently not. No true surprises there. Working alone is for the best." He hesitated. "Working with my blogger is for the best."

John smiled at the rare compliment from his friend, basking in the warmth it brought.

**

John opened his eyes back in 1888 as he concluded his description of the last remembered moments in the flat, although leaving out his reaction to the compliment. Sherlock didn't need to know that. He looked up, anxious to see if Sherlock had followed his memories and had remembered anything himself.

Sherlock nodded contemplatively. "Your account seems to be stimulating my memory effectively; I can remember that conversation happening now that you have related it. But I still can't recall why Mycroft felt compelled to visit that day, nor any of our conversation. It was probably more of his usual banal requests, although at this point it would do more harm than good to rule anything out."

John frowned slightly and opened his eyes, rubbing his temples vigorously in the vain attempt to remember more. "I… I have this feeling that something else happened after that. Something big. I mean, it seems obvious that something must have happened, but it isn't just logic telling me that, it's like my head is giving me hints. But the more I try to think about it, the harder it is to remember. I just instinctively know that something happened. And… And it ended badly."

"I am experiencing something similar," said Sherlock. "Instincts are very misleading however. The 'gut instinct' that Lestrade relies on is why he will never be as good a detective as I am, among other reasons. In this instance my instincts are telling me not to dwell on this, but naturally I need to remember in order to understand how we got here. It would seem that instincts are, once again, of little merit. Best not to trust them John, we will both do well to remember that while we're here."

John did not entirely agree but chose not to reply; there was no point in starting an argument on something that neither of them would compromise on. They had too much on their plates now without something dividing them. Besides, he knew that Sherlock had never experienced that need to rely on instinct like John had in Afghanistan. Instead, John picked up a newspaper lying on the table nearest to him and changed the topic to more practical, immediate matters.

"So what do you suggest we do now that we're here?"

Sherlock gracefully moved from where he had been leaning against the windowsill and sat opposite John. John noted with interest that like their own home, the two chairs were angled toward each other. It was as if one chair was the focal point of the other, something that John thought was not unlike their own lives. How often had his life revolved around Sherlock's? Although, he thought disheartened, the same could hardly be said of Sherlock. Sherlock's life revolved around his work and nothing else. That was an effectively mangled metaphor.

Sherlock's shoulders hunched up slightly, seemingly trying to shrug as he positioned himself on the plush seat. "Are there any cases of note?" he asked, nodding towards the paper in John's hands.

"You have got to be joking!" exclaimed John, resisting the urge to throw the damn newspaper at Sherlock's head. "We've barely arrived here! We have far greater priorities than that!"

The detective looked calmly back at him in his most infuriating manner. "It's what I do for a living, John. I can't let my brain rot while we remain here. Additionally, I'm sure that you want us to acquire a legal source of income to survive on in this time period, rather than have me continue to pickpocket unfortunates that cross my path. Unless you have any knowledge on the subject of time travel and how else to solve our little problem?"

John snorted. "The only thing I know about time travel is from watching Doctor Who."

"Then I would suggest that reading the newspaper would be more productive than discussing your Doctor Who obsession."

John rolled his eyes and muttered, "It's not an obsession. And FYI, the show is widely regarded to have some of the best writers in the world." But he found himself obeying Sherlock anyway during his quietly uttered rant. He ignored the eye roll that inevitably came from Sherlock after they disagreed over something involving popular culture.

He was momentarily thrown off guard by the front cover of the newspaper as his eye caught the date printed on the top right corner in small print. His hand instinctively went out and brushed over it, as if touching it could make it change. But the print stared back at him the same as ever, cheerfully reading '1 September 1888'. He shook his head. This kind of information still startled him. Although in fairness, he had only been thrown into this new world a few hours ago. Had it only been that long? It felt more like days rather than hours, and he was already sick of it.

His eyes then trailed down to the main headlines of that day and found an engrossing article straight away.

"This sounds up your street," he said aloud after he had read the main story. "A woman was murdered in the Whitechapel area early yesterday morning. It sounds like it was pretty grisly too, by our standards, poor girl. They're saying that she had her throat slashed, and her abdomen was all cut up. It sounds like she probably died by having her jugular severed. No suspects as of yet, but they're already harping on about police inadequacy. Good to know that some things don't change, eh?"

Sherlock had frozen in the chair opposite him as soon as he had mentioned the possible causes of death. John failed to notice this at first, too engrossed in what he was reading and taking in the new language and manner of writing. "What was her name?"

"Uh, Mary Ann Nichols. Though her friends called her -"

"Polly," finished Sherlock triumphantly. "Polly Nichols! Of course, how could I have forgotten!"

"How did you know that? Is she famous? I've definitely never heard of her," John questioned in a perplexed tone.

Sherlock was barely heeding a word he said. "Oh you really have no idea, do you? This is huge, this is immense! He has just started, John! I examined this case years ago when I was starting out my career but it didn't take me long to realize that there was never enough evidence for modern detectives to come to a satisfactory conclusion. And now we're here, practically on his doorstep with the ability to do it! With my intelligence, we could actually find him!"

"Find who?" John asked, feeling even more confused and slightly worried by how quickly the frenzied excitement had taken over his best friend.

"The Whitechapel Murderer. Or more commonly known to the modern public as Jack the Ripper. Although I vehemently disagree with that name due to its origin in a fake letter undoubtedly written by a journalist to sell more papers. It is a most misleading nickname. While 'The Whitechapel Murderer' is also a problematic name, it is certainly the less objectionable of the two."

A shiver ran down John's spine, consisting of excitement but also a tinge of fear. "Hang on, you mean to say that he's in London? Right now?"

"Precisely. This case is about to begin in earnest. There is much dispute as to which victims can be claimed as his; with such a time lag one can hardly tell whether it was the same man, or just violent unconnected murders. But Mary Ann Nichols is widely considered to be his first main victim, one of the canonical five."

"Canonical five?"

"The five victims who are attributed to him. But that isn't what you should be focusing on! We shall be here to see the entire case unfold! This is a most extraordinary opportunity. Some good will come out of ventures in the past after all, it would seem," Sherlock finished, his eyes gleaming.

"Look, I get that you're excited but calm down for a second. Don't you think that it's a bit too dangerous? I know we've chased serial killer cabbies before but that was in the twenty-first century. You know, when we actually knew where we were and what we were doing most of the time. Plus, we had proper technology and medicine to deal with the consequences of running after these people. We don't have that security to fall back on anymore. This place is far more lawless, god knows what could happen if we pursue this!"

Sherlock merely waved away John's concerns with his hand. "Don't be dull and predictable. The world's greatest mind can now tackle England's greatest unsolved mystery. Isn't it the perfect match? I would have thought that you would be excited by this prospect."

"But surely there's something about changing history that's dangerous and to be avoided at all costs?" John said in a further desperate attempt to dissuade Sherlock.

"I repeat; you watch far too much Doctor Who. The laws of time travel are far more complex than trite television programmes have led you to believe."

"Oh, and you're an expert on the 'laws of time' are you?" asked John triumphantly, curling his fingers into air quotations while he spoke. "Can you prove that I'm wrong? That the world won't implode or something if you change history by catching him?"

Sherlock frowned. "Technically, no. The little knowledge I do have however tells me that the world won't 'implode'. You may reserve the right to tell me that I was wrong if it comes to that however."

With a sigh, John passed his hand over his eyes and rubbed at his temples again, trying to release the stress that typically accompanied such arguments with the consulting detective. After a minute of regrouping his emotions, John looked at him uncomfortably. "I just… Have a bad feeling about this, if you'll forgive the cliché. I don't want you to be hurt in the process of chasing after some murderous lunatic who has no qualms about sticking a knife in you. I don't want either of us to be hurt," he amended quickly.

"The Whitechapel Murderer traditionally only went after female prostitutes. I think I have no reason to fear."

"You said yourself that it's almost impossible to determine which victims are actually his," John pointed out swiftly, even impressing himself with the comeback. "Who knows who he really killed? And I've been with you long enough to know that these nutters will kill anyone who threatens them, regardless of gender or their typical type."

"While your concern is touching," replied Sherlock dryly, "I repeat, I think we have no real cause to fear. Where has your exhilaration for the unknown and dangerous gone to?"

John stood, feeling exasperated with the replies he was receiving. His forced calmness from only a few minutes ago had already evaporated. "Well sorry for caring about whether you get murdered down some London alley," he replied testily, his pent up frustrations threatening to bubble to the surface. "I need to make myself some tea," he muttered agitatedly, hoping that it would provide a distraction and a comfort. Tea was surely something that would always be familiar to him. This illusion was shattered by Sherlock's next words.

"You don't make it yourself. You must ring for it."

John threw himself back into the chair again. "I hate this! Why can't I make my own bloody tea! The tea I make is perfectly fine! This makes no sense, everything is fucking backward. And what the hell can I do now? You can get your reputation here as a consulting detective and go off gallivanting after Jack the Ripper and whoever else, and I don't care if he's actually called the Whitechapel Murderer," he added vehemently when it looked like Sherlock was going to interject, "I don't give a flying fuck what he's called. It doesn't change the fact that you can run off to catch him whereas I can't even prove that I'm a qualified doctor! I can't do anything. It's damn infuriating!"

Silence ensued and John avoided Sherlock's penetrating gaze in the aftermath of his explosion. John wasn't used to swearing so much in one sitting, quite literally. He suspected that Sherlock wasn't used to it either, although he probably expected it to happen sooner or later what with the extreme culture shock from their situation. John looked intently down at his hand, wondering why he couldn't just keep himself quiet and stop spewing out these insecurities and aggravations out loud, especially when Sherlock couldn't really do anything about them. Sherlock could hardly help that John was useless a lot of the time in these circumstances.

With a sigh, John heard Sherlock move over to him and bend to his eye level. In the next moment, he tilted John's head in his direction with deft fingers so that they were making eye contact once more. Cool blue grey met warm hazel, and John suppressed a gasp at the sensation of Sherlock's fingers delicately touching his jaw for a few brief seconds before dropping away. The close proximity was spellbinding.

"Do not say that you cannot do anything while you are in my presence. It is a falsehood of the most severe kind. You will assist me on this case and then we shall decide how to progress after that."

Sherlock finally seemed to realize how close they were, almost as if he had acted and moved to John without thought. But that wasn't possible, because he always thought before he acted. After he could see that John wasn't going to disagree with what he said, he moved quickly back to his chair before picking up where he left off. "So my dear Watson," Sherlock continued with a teasing smirk, stressing the surname, "what do you say to heading down to Scotland Yard tomorrow morning to show them how things are done when one is a competent detective?"

"Just competent?"

"Fine, excellent."

John allowed his familiar warm grin to appear once more. "You never change do you?" he chuckled. "You will always be Sherlock Holmes, out to prove the police wrong at every available opportunity."

Sherlock shot him an almost feral grin. "Always." He stood abruptly after looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, which now read eight o'clock. "Unless you want something to eat, I suggest that you go to bed early. It's been a long day and we will need our wits about us tomorrow."

John felt a little thrill of happiness to hear Sherlock say 'we', to know that he was included and necessary. John yawned and nodded, extricating himself from the now comfortably warm chair. He began to walk towards the stairs that led to his room.

"Oh, and John?" Sherlock called to him just before he left the room. John turned with a questioning look.

"Please keep in mind that it's the Whitechapel Murderer from now on. I wouldn't like you to get in the habit of calling our killer by the wrong name." That damn smirk had returned.

Smug bastard, John thought again. Resisting the urge to send a rude hand gesture Sherlock's way while simultaneously fighting down a grin, John left the room and wearily made his way to his room and long sought after sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up in chapter 3: John has trouble sleeping, the boys are introduced to Scotland Yard and some of its current inspectors, Polly Nichols' inquest is of interest, and possible connections to victims are brought forward.
> 
> Yeah, I want down the Ripper path... Sorry about that, but please bear with me and I'll make it worth your while. I'll have a further quick A/N about this plot development in the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Things faded to grey, grey like pavements and cobblestones and buildings. Everything was tinged with it, the vacuous world giving up its colour without such much as a passive complaint. John didn’t notice when the change occurred –one second all had been normal, and then he blinked and missed when they swapped over and the world became less vibrant. Funny how things like that happen so quickly, like time doesn’t care about how important something is. All that matters is that the world keeps turning, regardless of whether it appears to stop for anything or anyone in it. Nothing is personal, nothing is sacred, and above all, nothing waits._

_Similarly to colour, feeling had suddenly been replaced by numbness, a claustrophobic and suffocating numbness that made him want to scream. John hadn’t noticed it take over his body, but it must have done so. He fell forward and couldn’t tell if someone had caught before he hit the ground. Maybe there was no one there at all to catch him. Black spots mocked his eyes, reminding him that he was so utterly out of control, that his body was not his to command in this moment. He thought he could hear a distant voice, maybe even someone holding him tightly, but he couldn’t distinguish words or whether someone was touching him or not. He couldn’t be sure of anything. He let out a breath and shut his eyes with no intention of opening them again -_

John awoke with a gasp and sat bolt upright in bed, breathing in deeply, much like when he had lived alone in that godforsaken flat in London before he met Sherlock. His hand moved instinctively to his shoulder to massage the tense, stiff skin, which had begun to ache. Once his breathing had become more controlled, he had more liberty to wonder what had prompted such a dream, for a dream it most certainly had been. He hadn’t had a nightmare about Afghanistan since a few weeks after moving into Baker Street (the _real_ Baker Street, not this sickly replica). Perhaps, he thought, perhaps his current situation was bringing back the traumatic memories. For Sherlock’s sake and his own he hoped that he was wrong in this supposition. It was going to be difficult enough to adapt and live in their current circumstances without John’s past coming back to haunt him. Or technically, his future.

John lay back down but soon found that he couldn’t get back to sleep again. He uncomfortably rearranged his position for what felt like several hours until the pale sunlight crept through the window in his room, and he realized that he wouldn’t be getting any more rest today. He got up and padded over to the window, noticing that some of the fog had dissipated. Some early risers were pacing the streets below and he tried to fathom how their lives could be so alienated from his own, and yet so normal for them. Their dress, manner of speech and dress, their values and living standards were so far removed that he was used to. Afghanistan had taught him to live by adapting to circumstances, but this wasn’t Afghanistan. Maybe he could draw some parallels, but he had a lot to learn about the 1880s and little in the way of preparation.

After being lost in these thoughts for a while, he heard a tapping at his door.

“Yes?”

Sherlock entered almost before he had actually answered, dressed for the day and his flushed cheeks indicating that he had already been outside among the people John had been surveying.

“Someone’s up early,” commented John with a raised eyebrow.

“I have already been out walking. I would normally be surprised at your lack of dress but I see that you didn’t sleep well. Bad night?”

John shrugged. “Getting used to a new bed and all that I guess.”

“No,” said Sherlock sharply, “you had a nightmare. You have evidently been up for a while but you still appear tired. Your drowsiness yesterday should have allowed you to have a full night of uninterrupted sleep, and yet you did not receive it. The only thing that could have disrupted your sleep that would not have also disrupted mine would be a nightmare.”

John threw up his hands in resignation. “Okay, fine! Yes, I had a nightmare and it kept me up. It’s not a big deal, I’m sure it’s just a once off kind of thing.”

“I believe that it is troubling you more than you care to let on. And it is no small matter as you haven’t had a nightmare about Afghanistan in over a year.” John schooled his features into a nonchalant mask so that Sherlock wouldn’t pick up on the fact that John was beginning to suspect that the nightmare hadn’t been about Afghanistan at all. He succeeded for once, as Sherlock continued, “However, we shall discuss this later after our day’s work is complete and once you feel more loquacious. We need to head to the police station that is conducting the inquiry into Mary Ann Nichols’ death.”

“What, right now?”

“There is no time like the present,” replied Sherlock as he swept from the room in dramatic fashion. John scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion. Since when did Sherlock speak in proverbs?

John dressed himself, aware that the clothes were slightly less stiff from having their first outing yesterday. He hoped that he wouldn’t have cause to loosen them much further; the less he had to wear them the better. It was hard enough to maneuver into them with his newly set shoulder, let alone in normal circumstances. He longed to switch back to his comfortable jumpers and cardigans. He thought of the jumper he was wearing yesterday when he was on the bridge, which he could no longer wear in this world without attracting the wrong sort of attention. What an odd place to be.

With his cravat in hand he went to meet Sherlock in the downstairs sitting room. He held up the cravat sheepishly and Sherlock tutted as he went over to tie it for him again. “I shall have to teach you this later on also. We shall do it in the evening. Now, let’s go.”

‘Let’s go’ apparently really meant that they should rush down the stairs and clamber into the nearest hansom cab with little thought for personal safety. And there was something else, John thought. The one thing that he found himself really missing, really wishing that he had valued when he had the chance? Taxi cabs. Because at this moment in time he was pretty convinced that hansom cabs were going to be the death of him, regardless of the amount of criminals wandering the streets of London at any given time. He fervently wished that he were in a taxi, or even walking the streets and braving that multitude of criminals. Because the smell, the jolting, the exposure, were all far worse than any cab ride he’d ever experienced. Even that time when he had his worst ever hangover and Sherlock had manhandled him out to that place in the south end for a case, and the homophobic cabbie shouted abuse at them when Sherlock anxiously started checking to see if John had a ‘temperature’ and he thought they were a couple. Even _that_ couldn’t compare.

And off they went in a hansom cab, the experience of which was enough to make John travel sick for literally the first time in his life. Sherlock seemed almost giddy from the opportunity to gain facts first hand as opposed to gleaming them from dodgy articles written in sensational modern day journals and books. John might have understood if he had gotten more sleep the night before. Actually that was a lie. He would _never_ understand Sherlock’s crime related giddiness. Sleep just helped him to appreciate it a bit more.

After what felt like a never-ending bone shuddering journey, they arrived at their destination in the Whitechapel district, for which John would be eternally grateful. They alighted from the hansom together and onto the dirty street below. John looked up after carefully placing his feet on the pavement, noticing a rather squalid building in front of them. He groaned when he saw Sherlock speeding up the steps leading into the building, realizing that it must be the police station. It certainly was a change from the spotless and professional Scotland Yard that he had become used to seeing when he called in on DI Lestrade.

The lobby area did nothing to do away with the impression that the external part of the building had made on them, perhaps even increasing John’s incredulity that this was indeed a police station. In a corner of the room was a duty police officer, reclining against his desk, not even looking up at them as he smoked and purveyed his paper. Sherlock, never one to be discouraged, strode over.

“I want to speak to the inspectors working on the Nichol’s murder,’ he demanded.

The policeman eyed him incredulously. “A lot of people want to know about that murder. Only relatives get to know what’s goin’ on here,’ he said, giving Sherlock a glare and continuing when it looked like Sherlock was about to interrupt, ‘And don’t even think about lying to me and sayin’ you’re a relative.”

“No, not a relative,” Sherlock said almost bashfully as if he had been caught out doing something wrong, evidently trying to utilize his acting skills, “I am a journalist.”

The officer laughed. It was a hollow sound. “We’ve had a lot of ‘em poking around here, so we have. And I’m telling you now, there’s nothing that we can reveal to you lot before the inquest. You journalist types really are all the same, aren’t you? Thinking you have a right to ‘alert the public’ and such nonsense, but all you really wanna do is sell papers. Be off with you, I ain’t got anything to tell you.”

Sherlock glowered at the man, his patience clearly growing thin. “Officer, I know a lot about this case already, including the fact that the Metropolitan Police are beginning to suspect that a serial killer may be responsible. Would you like me to write an article in tonight’s paper relating that little fact? Or would you prefer me to report the much more bland aspects of the case and prevent panic from breaking out across greater London? The choice is yours.”

The officer had paled considerably. “Are you attempting to threaten or blackmail the police?” he said tremulously, “because if you are –“

“You’ll what? I have the freedom of speech to report what I choose. I’m not threatening you, I am merely telling you what I know of the case and what I plan to report unless I can find alternative information.”

“That is pretty much blackmail Sher-“ John’s hissed correction was broken off with a small cry of pain as Sherlock’s foot connected with his shin rather painfully.

“How did you know that we suspect a serial killer?”

“I have my ways,” Sherlock smirked. “It wasn’t all too hard to find out. Now please tell your superior officers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and my colleague John Watson wish to speak to them.”

The officer stood quickly, perhaps in an attempt to feel less intimidated by Sherlock’s imposing stance and manner. “Well you can’t speak to them just now. They’ve just left for the coroner’s inquest about ten minutes ago.”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course, the inquest is today. In that case, I shall return here tomorrow. I expect my needs to be accommodated promptly when I return. I shall go and introduce myself to the inspectors after the inquest. And I suppose if the inquest is open to the public then that shall also prove beneficial.”

The policeman was still regarding them with suspicion and had written down their names on the side of his newspaper, something John did not fail to notice. Perhaps all this time with Sherlock had caused him to become more observant after all. “Right, I’ll send a messenger boy on to tell them to expect you then.”

Sherlock nodded once before turning and motioning to John to follow him outside. Once they were out of earshot, he said to John, “We must head to the coroner’s inquest now. We can walk, it’s on Whitechapel Road.”

John looked at him with a frown. “How do you know that? You didn’t ask the policeman in there,” gesturing back to the lobby with his hand, “where it was.”

Sherlock tsked, berating John for his lack of foresight. “I did study this case I my youth, John. Such details are hardly ones that I would forget.”

“But you didn’t remember that the inquest was today. And if you’ve studied most of the facts already why do you want to speak to all of these people in the first place?”

“I didn’t forget that the inquest was today, I was merely trying to make an impression on the policeman so that he would prepare everything promptly for tomorrow. And I wish to peruse all these facts again because as of now they are fresh. Things become lost and misconstructed when they’re written down and left to stew over time. The only way to get accurate data, particularly pertaining to this case, is to actively search for it myself.”

John made no reply to this statement, deciding that he would allow Sherlock to win this particular verbal sparring. He didn’t always let him win, sometimes he was too angry with the other man to let things go. But he supposed that this occasion was fairly innocuous and not worth the bother of starting a row over it. He smiled slightly, briefly recollecting some of the verging on playful arguments they had had over the last few months.

They walked the rest of the way to the inquest in silence.

 

 

 

After seating himself surreptitiously at the back of the room where the inquest was being held, John soon came to the conclusion that the coroner, Wynne Edwin Baxter, was a blunt man. The examinations having already been conducted, He delivered his findings without ceremony and indignation. He described the body even more coolly than Molly Hooper would, with a poise that only really came with arrogance. But he seemed to be a good enough coroner from what he was saying, which may explain that arrogance. Although John found himself unable to follow everything that he said, being uncharacteristically distracted by the man’s astounding beard.

He did remember listening attentively when the injuries on the body were related in minute detail however. There had been bruising to the face and jaw, with the cause of death being two long and deep slashes extending across the throat from left to right, severing the arteries, as John had guessed from the newspaper article. From the length and depth of the cuts the weapon was estimated to be a long-bladed knife. Her abdomen had also been mutilated in a similar manner post-mortem. There were jagged deep cuts also going from left to right, ripping through the skin as if it were as frail as a piece of paper. It had been a most vicious attack, though John supposed that the woman was lucky that she would have died before the mutilation had occurred. He shuddered when he thought of the slashes to her neck, his own fingers instinctively tracing over his own neck and feeling the major artery pulsing underneath his skin.

Caught up in his own gruesome thoughts, he didn’t really pay much attention to the rest of the inquest. He was startled when Sherlock shook his arm to get his attention and he realized when he looked up that the inquest was finally over and the crowd was beginning to disperse.

“Come. We need to speak to inspectors Helson and Spratling before they leave.”

John smiled to himself, realizing that Sherlock had even remembered the names of two almost insignificant inspectors in his earlier analysis of this case. Things like this made John think of him fondly, wondering how on earth someone could have such a capacity for remember details.

“Inspectors, I am Sherlock Holmes of the The Times newspaper, and this is my associate Mr. Watson. I’m sure that the officer at your police station has already informed you of our arrival here and our intentions.”

The taller inspector nodded but his eyes narrowed in suspicion at the two. “That he did,” he said as he shook hands with them. “I’m inspector Helson. I can’t say that I’m all too happy about your interference either but our hands are tied. Rest assured that if you continue to butt in with your somehow inquired inside information, we will not take kindly to it. I wouldn’t put up you right now if we did have everything else to deal with too. Come back to the station tomorrow and we’ll talk then.”

“Just one moment,” said Sherlock quickly before they had a chance to turn away. “I wish to ask you one thing before we meet again tomorrow. I know that there are two previous inquiries that you think might have some connection to the present case. What can you tell me of them?”

“You most certainly have done your homework, Mr… uh, what did you say your name was again?” asked the other inspector, Spratling. Continuing on after Sherlock had impatiently repeated his name, he said, “Those women you’re referring to would be Annie Millwood and Ada Wilson. Ms. Millwood died back in February from stab wounds to the legs and abdomen. Ms. Wilson was attacked back in March.”

“And what was her cause of death?” asked Sherlock eagerly.

“There wasn’t one,” replied Helson. “She’s still alive.”

John could tell that Sherlock was struggling to contain his excitement. “I should like to see those case details tomorrow as well after our talk.”

The taller detective, Helson, shook his head, his body language evidentially showing that Sherlock’s information and demands were wearing thin on his patience. “I’m afraid to inform you,” he said with voice dripping with sarcasm, “that we weren’t the one to look into that business. You’ll need to go to another police station in the district where the crimes occurred for that. Now if you have quite finished mucking about and playing around with this investigation-“

Sherlock shot him a mischievous, almost predatory look. It sent a thrill down John’s spine. “Playing inspector? Oh no, I assure you that I never play. I hunt. And I suspect we will be seeing a lot of each other in the near future.”

The gleam in his eyes caused the inspector to move away hastily, almost backing into his shorter colleague. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ll be heading back to the station. Good afternoon gentlemen.” They exited quickly, evidently afraid of being cornered and badgered with more of Sherlock’s questions.

Sherlock and John followed after them but a slower pace. As they left, John stood on tiptoe and hissed into Sherlock ear, “Hunting? What the bloody hell were you on about?”

Sherlock looked down at him, his mouth quirked up into a slight smile. “It was just a touch of intimidation. Didn’t it sound good?”

John rolled his eyes at his antics. They exited the building and Sherlock hailed for a hansom cab to take them back to Baker Street. John clambered into the back, though Sherlock had place a steadying hand on his waist when he stumbled on his way, his still sore shoulder throwing him off balance.

“Careful,” murmured Sherlock, before he retracted the hand at John’s waist and turned to give the driver the address. While he did this John willed the colour to leave his face and his pulse to stop racing the way it currently was. It was merely a hand on his back for Christ’s sake, it was hardly something to get worked up over.

Sherlock broke the silence and continued speaking. “Remember those two inspectors, John. The Whitechapel Murderer experts often say that the policemen involved in the case were not capable or competent enough to tackle it. We now have proof of this assertion. If they were intimidated by men, one can only imagine how they will react to a knife wielding serial murderer that they’re supposed to be tracking and confronting.”

John rolled his eyes. “You think that every police officer, except maybe Lestrade,” John stopped when he heard Sherlock snort, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh I see, every police officer _including_ Lestrade is widely incompetent, at least according to you. And there are days when I would prefer to confront a knife wielding serial killer over you,” he said in a teasing tone.

Sherlock’s lip quirked up in amusement, assured by John’s manner that he wasn’t speaking seriously. “And what days would those be? I admit that I have never heard you describe your fear of me in such harsh terms before.”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe on the days when I open the fridge to get milk and then find a disembodied head? And believe me Sherlock, just because you’ve never heard me say things like that doesn’t mean that I don’t think them regularly enough.” Had John been the sort of man who liked to wink at his own witticisms, he supposed he might have punctuated the end of that sentence with a wink. Instead he settled for giving a smirk in Sherlock’s general direction.

Sherlock chuckled. “I see. I shall have to be more wary of you’re wishes in regards to my behaviour.”

John snorted. As if Sherlock would ever change. The day that Sherlock bought milk would be the day that the earth ended, as far as John was concerned.

“On a more serious note however,” Sherlock continued, “we will go back to investigate the possible connections with Wilson and Millwood and the serial killer in the other police station that Helson mentioned shortly. I shall go back to the scene of Polly Nichols’ murder tonight before it has been entirely cleaned up. But I shall do so alone; you need not come with me. And I suspect that you would prefer an early night in any case as your shoulder is still hurting you and you slept poorly last night. I shall be able to handle the crime scene alone. Although any valuable evidence will undoubtedly have been removed by now, the layout and exact placing of the body are important to see first-hand.”

John repressed a sigh of relief. The idea of going out again tonight after so little sleep was highly unappealing. If Sherlock had said that he didn’t want him there, that would have been another matter. But part of him knew that Sherlock said what he did out of concern. In fact, he was quite touched by Sherlock’s unusual show of compassion now that he thought of it, particularly because it was directed toward him. Although he couldn’t help feeling anxious for Sherlock’s safety, something which he had been feeling far more often than usual of late. Of course he had always worried about Sherlock, but this was different, like he wasn’t sure how his life would continue if Sherlock stopped being in it. It wasn’t something he could recall feeling with such fervor ever before and his strength of feeling scared him.

“Be careful,” he said while looking out the window when realized that he hadn’t replied to Sherlock’s monologue.

Sherlock turned to look at him but said nothing in reply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up in chapter 4: Sherlock rules out and confirms some victims, interviews with witnesses and the family of Polly Nichols are conducted, the pressing matter of money forces John to look into getting a job, and John experiences guilt over something he cannot change and Sherlock attempts to comfort him over it.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read/left kudos thus far, it is greatly appreciated and please continue to enjoy! Any and all constructive criticism is warmly welcomed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It was some days later that John truly comprehended the magnitude to which Sherlock’s exertion could grow. He had never seen the detective so eager to collect the facts and to deduce and to _solve_ , and that was really saying something. The energy and excitement that surrounded him was unlike anything John had ever seen before. Even Sherlock’s frenzied interest in the Baskerville case did not attain these heights of activity. This phase had really begun when Sherlock came home the morning after the inquest. His dark hair had been lightly coated with morning dew and his eyes gleamed, a sure sight that the game, as he had once put it, was on. John had witnessed this over the breakfast table after a more-or-less comfortable night of uninterrupted sleep, and it inspired admiration in him to see the detective so excited and eager.

It was so awe-inspiring that John was very much amenable to Sherlock’s wishes that morning, and he gladly agreed to accompany Sherlock down to the police station. John quickly finished his tea and toast, trying to eat even faster when he noticed Sherlock’s restless feet tapping against the floor, although the detective had the decency not to rush him in so many words. He was soon ready to leave, on the journey to the station Sherlock explained to him how he wanted to confront the two ‘dimwitted’ inspectors once more. John pitied them to a certain extent, although that quickly vanished when he remembered that their ineptitude would ultimately lead to at least four other murders, unless Sherlock could successfully intervene.

Their day spent in the dreary police station was very long, with the only diversion coming from the officer on guard the day before who regarded them with both fear and suspicion. It was quite comical, and was the only thing that John had to smile about by the end of the day. Not that he didn’t enjoy accompanying Sherlock on cases, but he had certainly forgotten how trawling through police reports and listening to Sherlock insult every policeman in the vicinity grated on the nerves after a while.

While John was certainly still enjoying sitting in on and being involved in these cases with Sherlock, he resolved the next day to let the detective forge on without him for the time being and only offer his input when it was specifically asked for. While John certainly still enjoyed being involved in Sherlock’s cases, he decided that tomorrow he would let the detective forge on without him for the time being and only offer his input when specifically asked. This was not on account of the mind-numbing day at the police station however, but rather for a more pressing reason – money. It had occurred to John soon after arriving in their current time zone that they couldn’t survive on Sherlock’s pilfering. Eventually Sherlock would be caught. And of course, that didn’t even begin to cover the moral implications.

John had resolved that getting a job really was an utter necessity for the duration of their stay, however long that may be. He had brought up the matter with Sherlock on the morning after they had returned from the police station. They had both been sitting in their armchairs, drinking tea in John’s case and thinking in Sherlock’s, when John cleared his throat.

Sherlock looked up at him sharply and raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Question?”

“I – yes. I need to get a job. God knows you won’t get one.”

“You’re mistaken John, I currently have a job.”

John rolled his eyes. “Fine, a _paid_ job. I need to get one while we live here.”

“Money,” Sherlock huffed. “How dull, I don’t know why you even feel the need to consult about it with me.”

“Money isn’t dull, Sherlock, in my experience it usually comes in handy a lot of the time. And I do need to inform you as to why I won’t be around all the time once I get a job. Although…” John trailed off.

“Although you don’t know what kind of job would suffice?” Sherlock returned with a smirk.

John mumbled an affirmative, a slight blush overtaking his cheeks. “I know that I can’t be a doctor or physician or whatever they call it here. The practice methods are all different. Mine would be severely examined and seen as malpractice. Not to mention that I can’t actually prove that I’m a trained doctor. No doctorate and no records mean no job. And I’m not about to become a soldier again.”

John could have sworn that he saw Sherlock suppress a shudder when he alluded to his past, but then decided he must have imagined it. “So, what do you suggest?” he prompted.

Sherlock thought for a few moments. “Any form of heavy manual labour, like dock or mill work, is out of the question.”

“Why? My injuries are hardly that severe.”

Sherlock threw him a sharp look. “I know your capabilities, that is not my concern. These jobs are extremely detrimental on one’s health and life expectancy. I will not allow my Boswell to put himself through unnecessary hardships purely for the sake of money.”

“I have always been the breadwinner of the relationship,” John joked weakly. Truth be told, he was exceedingly touched that Sherlock would bother to be so considerate of him and his health. That he wanted John to be with him as long as possible. At least, with the talk of life expectancy, John hoped that that was what Sherlock meant.

“Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Of course, I see an obvious solution. You could make use of your blog writing skills,” he said, obviously trying and failing to conceal his eagerness.

“Blog writing?”

“Not quite, though something similar. Journalism. This case is going to hit the headlines quickly and the media frenzy will shortly be unleashed. Journalists will clamor to report everything first and with the most sensationalist of facts. However, that will leave a gap in other sections of the news, which will be inevitably neglected. I should imagine that some openings are already be in existence. If you merely type up some sample articles, you should be amply prepared for an interview.”

And just like always, Sherlock had been right. After furiously typing on (and occasionally swearing at) the typewriter for a week, hearing some snarky comments about how John’s two-finger typing method was even more detrimental on a typewriter from a certain consulting detective along the way, John had some articles that he was satisfied with. John had a few articles that satisfied him. They merely consisted of opinion pieces on certain topics and articles he had found in other newspapers, but he still felt sort of proud that he had rustled them up so quickly and that they weren’t overly awful either. The pieces were simply opinions on certain topics and articles he had found in other newspapers, but he still felt sort of proud that he had written them so quickly and in his opinion they weren’t overly awful. He got in touch with several newspapers and sent his articles off, hoping to hear back about interviews within a few days.

By the end of the week John was in luck, with a modestly sized London newspaper company calling him in for an interview, and then offering him a job when said interview went well. In fact, it went better than any job interview John could ever recall having in his entire life. _Perhaps I should consider a career change_ , he thought after the interview when his new boss was giving him a quick tour of the workspace and the printing area. His job was to write opinion pieces and select and reply to select readers’ letters. Although it wasn’t a particularly well-paid job, it was still enough to pay for necessities and leave him enough time to aid Sherlock at least occasionally. After all, there were not many chances to get up close and personal to Jack the Ripper. Or rather, the Whitechapel Murderer. _Great_ , thought John, _now I’m correcting myself. Surely I get enough of that with Sherlock._

The tour was soon over and all that remained was for him to be introduced to a few curious new colleagues who had stopped working to watch his progress through the office. He saw a particular group of men in the corner, and supposed with a chuckle that was the past equivalent of gathering around the water cooler for a chat. He and his senior boss, Mr. Richardson approached them and they were introduced briefly.

“This is your new colleague, gentlemen. His name is Mr. Watson and he is taking over for Mr. James while he is absent. These are some of the faces that you will become familiar with during your time with us Mr. Watson, and I’m sure they will offer you guidance if you ever have any troubles. Excepting Mr. Brandon of course,” Mr. Richardson said with a laugh, “He is not a man to be trusted with giving any kind of guidance.”

The said gentleman assumed an expression of mock indignation but soon broke out into a smile and shook John’s hand cordially.

“The others are Mr. Wentworth, Mr. Lesley and Mr. Smith,” continued Richardson, pointing to each in turn and they all shook John’s hand with a muttering of warm welcome. After a few more minutes of small talk, which were mostly steered by Richardson and Brandon, John was free to go with an agreement to return and begin his part-time work the next week.

That night John found himself facing Sherlock once more from his armchair, at liberty to eagerly discuss the facts of the case now that his efforts to get a job had been fruitful. And sitting back in Baker Street with the detective it struck John that having been previously caught up with getting employment, he now feared being left behind in the case due to his more frequent absences. He decided to use this opportunity to get any information he had missed out of an unusually loquacious Sherlock.

“So Mary Ann Nichols,” John mused. “From what I remember from our day at the police station, she was estranged from her husband and had five kids, descended into alcoholism and later resorted to prostitution. Is there any way that a member of her family could have killed her? As revenge for leaving her husband? Or maybe someone was angry or ashamed at her behaviour?”

“That seems unlikely. Admittedly the brutality of the attack can often show a signs of anger and a personal motive, but not in this case. Her family was well rid of her. Her allowance from her husband that she lived off was gone, explaining her resorting to prostitution, and she hadn’t contacted any member of her family in a number of years. She had no reason to fear any of them and they had no reason to go after her when she had left their lives and was utterly disassociated from them.”

“What have you deduced from the attack itself?”

“It was conducted by a man. A woman would not have the strength for such actions while also having the ability to walk around London alone and remain unnoticed. A man has the brutal strength to carry it out and also can walk away from the attack late at night without being noticed; people will presume that he is an average man who must have gotten into a fight. The nature of the injuries suggests a violent and brutal person, although probably not a sadist.”

“Not a sadist?” John exclaimed, “Sherlock, the poor woman was pretty much mutilated, her skin was cut to shreds in some places!”

“Yes, but most of those injuries were inflicted post-mortem. A sadist is one who receives gratification, often sexual in nature, from inflicting pain on others. A true sadist would inflict the abdominal mutilations first in order to inflict maximum pain and feel control over his victim. In this case, she was murdered very swiftly. Two incisions on the neck slicing through the jugular would kill someone exceedingly quickly, would it not?”

John nodded. “A minute or two at most is all it would take, I should think.”

“Precisely. Why chose such a quick method to kill someone? Because He was more interested in what happened after death. I am not pretending that this man is not deranged, merely that he is not guilty of sadism in the true sense of the word. He is more interested in the body than in the actual act of killing or torture. Now that this has been established,” Sherlock continued, “let us move on to what I gleaned from the crime scene itself.”

“Ah, you’re finally going to tell me what you found?” John asked, a trace of annoyance in his voice at not being told earlier. He had been trying to nudge Sherlock subtly, and later not so subtly, into telling him his observations and conclusions. Sherlock’s obstinacy had come into play however, and he had refused to divulge anything when John asked until now.

Sherlock merely smirked at John’s frustration. “Her body was round at twenty to four in the morning in Buck’s Row, Whitechapel. From our visit to the inquest, we know that the pathologist estimates that she died ten minutes before her discovery, at half three.”

“Yeah, I remember. So?”

“John,” Sherlock said excitedly, “you yourself commented on medical methods inaccuracy only a few days ago when you mentioned your desire to get a job.”

“It was hardly a desire,” John grumbled.

Sherlock ignored his interjection. “In any case, as you have said yourself, the pathologists of this time are hardly known for their accuracy. I find the doctor’s approximation of the time of death to be suspect. From his description, which was rather poor, I believe that her death was considerably earlier than he placed it, perhaps even up to forty-five minutes earlier. The doctor’s time of death calculations were primarily based on liver temperature, but his calculations assumed that she was killed where the body was found. If that were the case, his estimate would indeed be correct. However, I have concluded that she was originally killed elsewhere and then moved to the location where she was found. In order to move the body without attracting attention, he would have had to cover her in something or use some form of private transport. Either of these options would have slowed the loss of body heat, and thus lead the pathologist to an erroneous time of death."

“But hang on, how can you know that the body was moved in the first place?”

“Ah, this is where it becomes more interesting. The police had not yet cleaned the lane when I made my crime scene examinations, fortuitously for me, although perhaps it does not reflect well on the police force. I noticed that the amount of blood present however was far too little for someone with a slit throat and abdominal injuries.”

“Some of the blood could surely have just been worn away from all the people going through there surely? Or business owners might have washed it away themselves?”

“No. Although the police were tardy in cleaning up the crime scene, they had in fact left it relatively untouched and were careful in removing the body.” Sherlock had a grudging expression as he conceded this. “Thus, any bloody spilled where the body was found should still be there. So where is the rest of the blood that should have come from the neck wound?”

John shrugged his shoulders. “The location where she was actually killed I suppose?”

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed. “She was dumped in Buck’s Row, but that was not the site of her murder. I examined every back alley and conceivable outdoor location where the murder could have taken place from which it would have taken approximately twenty minutes to travel with a body. But there is nothing at all to suggest a killing, meaning that our killer must have meticulously cleaned up after himself in the location where he killed her. Of course, he may have killed her in an interior location. Unfortunately, I will have to concede my limitations on this point, as it is not possible for me to examine every rented room located in that area. We have a skilled, clever killer on our hands, a man who is certainly more skilled that the police.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts. While Sherlock was thinking of how best to proceed, John found himself wondering what kind of man they were looking for and how on earth they would ever catch him.

“What about those two women that the inspector mentioned? Annie Millwood and the other women, uh, Wilson was it? Were they his victims too?”

“Ah, yes and no. Annie Millwood was attacked and died in February of this year from stabs to the legs and lower abdomen. As I said before, these are the type of injuries that the killer would inflict post-mortem, not as a means of actually killing the woman. I suspect that his first target will always be the neck, regardless of whether the woman is his first or last victim. That will always be his first move even as he evolves as a killer. Therefore that discounts Ms. Millwood.”

“And the other woman, you think she’s a legitimate victim?” John prompted.

“The illustrious Ada Wilson. I managed to track her down and speak to her yesterday under the guise of being a police officer trying to follow up her case. Unfortunately she had little to say, no reliable description of the attacker to give. She was attacked at the end of March and stabbed twice in the neck. Anything of value that she may have had initially has now been forgotten in any case, although I suspect that she didn’t get a good look at him during the attack.”

“A neck injury? So it was him? I’m surprised that she survived.”

“While many exclude her case as she was stabbed in the neck rather than slashed, I believe her to be one of his first victims when he was still evolving his technique. He did not succeed in killing her with the stab wound and discovered in the process that slashing the neck better suited his purposes. However, I believe that this lead will take us no further and I do not intend to exert any more energy on it.”

John found himself feeling slightly ill as he listened to Sherlock detail the attacks. As a doctor, and a military man, he wasn’t particularly squeamish and had seen his fair share of brutal and violent injuries, and yet the idea of butchering these women repulsed him to the point of nausea. He couldn’t shake the image of Polly Nichols’ body from his mind, the mutilated flesh searing into his memory. He ignored the feeling as best he could.

“That’s two victims so far,” he found himself murmuring for no particular reason.

“It will soon be three,” Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

John sat bolt upright in his chair. “What? When?”

“The body of Annie Chapman will be discovered in the early hours of tomorrow morning, the eighth of September.”

John jumped up from his seat. “Then what are we doing just sitting here? We need to go and help her!”

Sherlock regarded him with an almost bored expression. “While your brave and noble spirit is once again seeping through, it will do no good in this situation. Even if we were able to locate the woman and prevent her murder, we would not only draw attention to ourselves and possibly put ourselves in danger, there would merely be a different body somewhere else in the future. This is our only hope of staying one step ahead of the killer.”

“But Christ Sherlock, if we both go down together we can catch him! There won’t be anymore murders then, so what’s the problem? We need to get moving!”

Sherlock shook his head. “No John. Remember, this man moves the body from a first unknown location. Even if we sat waiting for him in the place that we know the body will be moved, we will run into numerous problems.”

“Like what?” John asked angrily.

“Firstly, this is an extremely smart and careful killer. He will undoubtedly check the location of the body dump for possible witnesses, even before he has killed his target. If by some chance he happens to notice us, he will simply change the location of the body dump. And if we attempted to involve police they would only be suspicious of us. Think, John! We do not have a realistic way in which to explain the source of our information. The only conclusion they could come to would be that we were somehow involved in the murders themselves. It’s the only explanation of our foresight and knowledge, at least for them. No, the only way to catch this person is to literally catch him in the act, and we cannot do that until we know where the murders are occurring. Hence, there is no point in attempting to go now.”

John tiredly acknowledged Sherlock’s logic; he knew that he was right. If they stopped this murder, then a different one would occur and they wouldn’t have the advantage of knowing when and where it would happen. But every instinct in his body screamed at him to get up and do something, anything to prevent what was going to happen. He paced agitatedly for a few moments in silence, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm his conflicted mind. He ended up resolving to go lie down and attempt to clear his mind.

As soon as he got into his bedroom, he loosened the cravat at his neck (which he still hadn’t learnt how to tie properly) and removed his jacket and threw it across the room. He didn’t bother to remove the rest of his clothes, instead flopping onto the bed covers and twisting his fingers in an agitated manner. John couldn’t stop thinking about the case. In a few hours time, he knew that a woman would be brutally murdered. And he was consciously choosing to do nothing about it. What did that say about him as a person?

John did not know how long he was lost in his own self-deprecating thoughts. However long it was, a soft tap at his door roused him. He raised his head from the pillows and called out, ‘come in’. He allowed his head to sink back down when he saw that it was Sherlock at the door.

Sherlock approached the foot of the bed cautiously, a trace of concern in his brow on seeing John so evidently forlorn.

“You are upset.”

John did not bother to respond.

“Is it something I said or did that aggravated you?’

John shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s me.” He resisted the urge to snort at the overused clichéd line. “Well. It’s sort of you.”

Understanding flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. “You are attempting to blame yourself for the imminent murder of Annie Chapman. By doing nothing you equate yourself with the murderer himself.”

John’s throat had become very dry and he struggled to get the words out. “I know what’s going to happen, and it’s going to be awful. I’m not doing a thing to stop it. I’m at fault by omission. What kind of person does that make me?” He closed his eyes, the guilt becoming almost overpowering.

He felt the bed dip as Sherlock sat down beside him. “You feel culpable for something that you are not responsible for.”

“I am responsible. This is another human being we’re talking about.”

“If that is your concern, then let me propose another scenario. We stop Annie Chapman from being murdered, we protect her. What happens next?”

“What do you mean?”

“We prevent her murder. But what will the killer do then? Will he go after the next victim as history dictates he does, or will he find someone else, someone we have no knowledge of because we have caused him to veer off course? And furthermore, if by protecting Annie we deny our killer his intended target, will this escalate his kills and result in more deaths? Will you claim yourself responsible for those deaths too?”

John had no response for that.

“It is already too late for us to interfere tonight,” Sherlock continued, “but you must bare it in mind once we encounter his later victims. Our interference at inappropriate stages may radically alter the killer’s action, thus making it almost impossible to accurately predict what will happen next while also implicating ourselves. It also has the further disadvantage of putting additional innocents at risk.”

“There has to be another way. I … wish that things were different.”

“We cannot wish for things John. We either take action or we don’t, and then we react to our action or inaction as we see fit. That is how life moves on. For instance, I responded to my earlier inaction in regard to your distress downstairs by coming up here to… comfort you.”

John felt the urge to giggle when he heard Sherlock awkwardly complete that sentence and he indulged himself for a moment. “Who knew that Sherlock Holmes could be a source of comfort?’

He felt the bed shake slightly with Sherlock’s laughter and an easy silence settled between them. Sherlock then moved so that he was no longer sitting but lying down on the bed next to John.

The silence was broken when Sherlock suddenly said, “John, you are well aware that I don’t understand emotions with the same depth as you. And I will admit to being unwilling and somewhat - awkward in showing and reacting to my own emotions, and to emotion directed towards myself, although this has changed somewhat since we met. I have regard for few people in this world, but you are one of those people. I find it… difficult to imagine my life continuing without your presence in it.” Sherlock paused, clearly unsure if he had expressed his feelings in the appropriate way. John’s heart was hammering in his chest.

John slowly put his hand over the slimmer one that was resting beside his on the bed covers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I care about you too,” he said softly.

John’s heart continued to beat at what seemed like double time though all else was silent and still in the world. He worried that Sherlock’s formidable senses would pick up on that, but he forgot his concerns once he became more comfortable and more aware of his exhaustion. Eventually John fell asleep with Sherlock wide-awake beside him. Their hands remained loosely joined. For some reason that wasn’t entirely known to Sherlock, he felt the inclination to remain close to John instead of returning to his own room to think.

They stayed like this for some time, John asleep and blissfully unaware that Sherlock was still there, gently clinging to his hand and reveling in the novelty of the situation. John would occasionally move and sigh in his sleep but his body made no subconscious attempt to move away from the other man. They lay in the growing darkness and warmth.

After a few hours however, John began to whimper in his sleep. The nightmares that had been absent for the last few days had evidently returned now that John did not have his monetary and job worries to distract him. John’s sounds of distress grew in volume until it became clear that he would begin to thrash out in his sleep. Sherlock gripped John’s hand tighter in his own without even thinking about it, assuming that some connection to the waking world would help John combat his terror. John’s discomfort began to die down and he held onto Sherlock’s hand tighter in his sleep. Sherlock kept his vice grip, only loosening when it became clear that the nightmare had passed. He kept John’s hand clasped in his own for the remainder of the night, occasionally running his slim fingers over the warm skin and wondering why he felt the way he did and what the significance of it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your readership so far - it is greatly appreciated, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!
> 
> Coming up in chapter 5: There are further investigations, John starts to have more flashbacks and relates them to Sherlock, and one of them does something that has serious consequences.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh christ, sorry guys for the long wait. University work is keeping me mad busy so please bear with me while I get through it! I should get the next few chapters uploaded shortly however. :)  
> I hope everyone is keeping well, and enjoy! Thanks once more to Rairakkuu who's patience and feedback is the only producer of merit in this work.

John woke the next morning feeling refreshed and surprisingly well rested. He stretched in a cat like fashion, before turning his head and realizing that Sherlock wasn't there. John knew he shouldn't have expected to see him; Sherlock had probably left as soon as John fell asleep, his 'comforting' duties fulfilled. After all, that was the motivation behind Sherlock's actions last night, wasn't it? Nevertheless, John couldn't help feeling disappointed that Sherlock was gone. He imagined what it would be like to wake up next to Sherlock, and even though John couldn't quite picture it, he was sure that it would leave him feeling contented. John paused, startled by his own thoughts. Why would he feel that way?

Now that John thought about it he recognized that he had been thinking more on these lines of late. For example when he had felt disappointed that Sherlock addressed him so formally as 'Watson'. Even back on Westminster Bridge when he was more terrified for the detective's wellbeing than his own. And now thinking about it a bit more, John began to realize that in the lead up to their time traveling, he had been experiencing similar feelings back in their original Baker Street. Right now John couldn't pinpoint the root of these feelings, but he was pretty sure that whatever it was, he probably wouldn't like it.

But that still did not explain why he wanted Sherlock Holmes of all people to sleep beside him at night and wake up with him in the morning. It was something John normally associated with his girlfriends, although he hadn't been in that position with a woman for some time. So what did it mean that he wanted Sherlock beside him? Surely he wasn't developing… feelings for him? No, John's mind adamantly insisted, that was preposterous. As John himself had said on many occasions, he wasn't gay and they were not a couple. He probably just didn't like being alone in this foreign place where he couldn't adjust and felt continually intimidated by his nightmares. John felt soothed, reassured by the other man's presence, that must be it. It was a perfectly reasonable explanation of all the facts.

A niggling voice in the back of his head, which sounded suspiciously like Sherlock, contradicted him, saying, "It is one explanation of some of the facts." John hadn't felt the need for such security and companionship in Afghanistan, and he was a man well used to dealing with adversity on his own, the voice whispered to him. John swiftly told the Sherlock-like voice to shut the hell up.

With a start, John remembered that Sherlock's absence indicated that he must have left to find out about the latest body. The detective must have left departed several hours ago if the light coming from the gap in the curtains was any indication. John idly wished that his old wristwatch had survived the trip back in time so that he could be sure, but unfortunately it had spontaneously stopped functioning on his arrival. He would have to talk to Sherlock about that too, he supposed.

While John felt the urge to run out and join Sherlock wherever he might be, he could not do so; he had his own job to tend to. And he couldn't know where the consulting detective was by now, having forgotten to ask him where the crime scene would be last night. Instead John got up and dressed himself so as to not be late to the newspaper office – he insisted on walking there everyday, as he still had not improved his relationship with hansom cabs. Hurrying down the stairs, John realized that he didn't have time for breakfast as he was perilously close to being late. The accursed cravat hung loosely around his neck, and he left it there to its own devices, dressing properly be damned.

Luckily no comment was passed on his attire once he arrived at the newspaper office (just in the nick of time). John supposed that most of his colleagues tended towards scruffiness what with the hours they kept in any case. He proceeded to spend several hours at the office, working away at his typewriter. He briefly talked with some of his colleagues, although he let them do most of the talking when they approached. It was Mr. Brandon who was proving to be the most forthcoming and friendliest of the lot. He had thus far taken the time to speak to John at the end of every day, and today was not an exception. Evidently he had taken it upon himself to make sure that John was settling in adequately.

"Mr. Watson, let me walk you to the door and tell me what you think of us all so far," he said jovially when John was preparing to leave that evening.

John smiled cordially at him, finding that he actually genuinely liked the man. "I'm settling in fine, everyone has been extremely kind to me."

"Oh come on now Watson, you can tell me what you really think, I swear that I won't judge you for it."

John laughed. "Honestly Mr. Brandon, I have been treated with great kindness. Mr. Richardson has been most accommodating."

Brandon nodded and smiled. "Indeed, Richardson is a very helpful man and once you have the hang of things, he'll leave you to your own devices. Now Mr. Smith on the other hand, you remember him from your first day I'm sure, he might resent you a bit because I think he wanted to take your job as well as his own to earn a bit more money. But don't mind him, he'll warm up to you soon enough. Just don't bring up his friend Mr. James in front of him."

John had nodded gratefully for the information and then paused as they reached the door which lead outside. He couldn't resist asking, "What exactly occurred to make Mr. James leave his position if you don't mind my asking?"

Brandon looked troubled, a look that did not suit his handsome jovial face, and said in a lowered tone, "No one knows. He had been absent for a number of days, and Richardson was rather furious at him because other staff had to cover his articles on short notice, which is never good with the printing press folks. Smith went round to his flat to see why he wasn't showing up as they were quite close; I think they knew each other before they came to work for the paper. His flat was completely ransacked when he arrived, with no sign of James. That was two weeks ago and there hasn't been a word since. Smith is a bit on edge because people are assuming the worst, but they can't get the police to look into it properly because they're too caught up in the current murder. I'm sure you know that one I'm talking about."

Brandon stopped speaking abruptly when he discerned Smith on the other side of the office, and clapped John on the shoulder. "Anyway, let's not talk of such gloomy things. I better let you get to work, and I am nearby if you wish to call for assistance." He walked away with a quick smile and John seated himself and got to work, although he filed away the information that Brandon had told him. There was nothing like an unsolved case to pique his interest.

When he arrived back at Baker Street a few hours later after finishing his work, Sherlock had yet to come home. John ate without him but became worried as the clock struck eleven and he still hadn't arrived. John had come home later than he anticipated, and he had expected Sherlock to be back before him. He anxiously wondered what Sherlock could still be doing at this hour, hoping that the genius hadn't gotten himself into any serious trouble.

John had just formed that thought when he heard quick footsteps on the stairs. He sighed in relief when he saw Sherlock thrust open the door and quickly settle beside the fireside without deigning to give him a greeting. John offered none of his own, cutting right to his questions.

"She's dead then? Annie Chapman?"

"Yes. Her body was found in a back yard in Whitechapel at six am this morning."

"Same injuries as the last woman?"

"The post-mortem has yet to be carried out, although if they are as I remember them to be, then the injuries should match those of the last victim."

Sherlock sank into silence and John realized that this was all the information he would receive tonight. Instead of questioning Sherlock further, he chose to go to bed knowing that his friend was back safely. He offered Sherlock a brief 'goodnight' although he didn't expect to hear one in return, and he turned out to be entirely justified. He went to his room with a sinking heart. Something had changed between them.

The next week continued along in the same vein. John would be stuck at his typewriter while Sherlock continued to collect evidence. While John wanted very much to join him, the upsurge of articles about the recent killings meant that John had to take over writing other neglected areas for the paper, keeping him rather busier than he had anticipated. Additionally a strange sort of tension had fallen between the two men since the night that they spent together, although John refused to acknowledge that the event itself was the cause of the current strain on their friendship. Regardless, it made John almost afraid to accompany Sherlock out on the case when he would be at his most observant and cutting.

During the week they fell into an awkward routine. Sherlock would typically be gone before John awoke, while John headed to the newspaper in the early afternoon. He would arrive home in the evening, sometimes before Sherlock and occasionally after. Sherlock said little about his discoveries in the intervening time, once again unwilling to reveal anything until he had more concrete evidence and pieces of the puzzle fully assembled. They barely seemed to speak at all in fact. John didn't even bother asking him to teach him how to tie the cravat, struggling along by himself.

With each passing day that they spent away from each other, John's nightmares became more and more frequent. They occurred every night and he often found that he was unable to rouse himself from them. This provided him with an unexpected advantage however as the more of them John witnessed, he gradually came to realize that none of them, or at least none of the most recent ones, were dreams about Afghanistan at all as he had previously thought. He couldn't place them at all. He had no memory of them, and yet the feelings that accompanied them were so vivid and unsettling that he simply knew that he must have experienced them first hand.

During the day John was able to forget how they made him feel while he slaved over his typewriter, which was a nice piece of escapism that worked for an unusual reason - while his two-finger typing method had been slow in modern day London, it was nothing compared to what he was experiencing now. His snail-paced typing, coupled with the problems of spelling errors, ribbon jams and ensuring that the paper was inserted correctly, certainly created a foolproof way to forget all his other plagues and woes. Not to mention time consuming.

John almost felt disappointed when the weekend arrived and he didn't have his job to go to and he would now have to deal with Sherlock's reticence. But luck appeared to be on his side as Sherlock finally became communicative again on Friday evening, and the frostiness and tension between them thawed, very much to John's relief. He didn't even bother asking Sherlock what had come between them, as he was too happy to have his friend back to risk jeopardizing their relationship again. Sherlock presented him with a pocket watch, casually mentioning that he noticed John's frustration at being unable to check the time for himself. He also provided John with a helpful warning that he needed to wind it up every night to keep it functioning, as well as a brief deduction about the previous owner of the watch that was reminiscent of Sherlock's deduction about his phone. Sherlock's sudden change in manner was not just confined to Friday evening either, as he dragged John out of bed energetically early on Saturday morning and instructed him to be ready in ten minutes.

Somehow John managed to obey the command and he blearily followed Sherlock outside to a waiting hansom cab. He was too sleepy to complain about the ride and after a short journey they hopped out to find themselves facing a mortuary.

"I may regret asking this, but what are we doing here Holmes?" John inquired while being careful not to use Sherlock's Christian name while they were in public. While John kept his tone slightly teasing, it also had an underlying worry. He had his suspicions of what they were about to do, but he hoped for the best. In vain, it turned out.

"I need to see Annie Chapman's body."

John groaned. "Of course you do. And how do you propose we do that? Do you happen to be intimately acquainted with one of the morticians? Anyway, if you were at the inquest why do you need to see the body at all?"

"I only trust my own eyes Watson, I need to be thorough. And don't be foolish; we shall merely walk in unnoticed. The post-mortem was conducted a week ago. No one will be looking at the body except us. Our only difficulty will be discovering exactly where the body is being stored."

"I highly doubt that no one will notice us. People always notice us, Sherlock. And we couldn't have done this at another time?"

"Her body is being collected for burial in approximately one hour. This is the perfect opportunity. The body will be left somewhere convenient so it can be removed, and no one will wish to examine it until the undertakers arrive."

With that, Sherlock walked up the steps leading into the mortuary, leaving an anxious John in his wake. He caught up with him just as they walked through the entrance. John resisted the urge to slap Sherlock on the back of his head for going through with these insane plans without giving him enough prior warning.

It turned out to be a good thing that John didn't hit him, as he noted with surprise that their plan was actually just as easy to execute as Sherlock had predicted. No one seemed to question their presence there, and Sherlock swept into one of the back rooms without drawing so much as a lingering glance. John followed him much less assuredly, but tried not to draw attention to himself by hiding his unease and nervousness.

After about fifteen minutes of searching through the rooms with bodies lying out on display, Sherlock let out a small noise of delight. The body in question lay in front of him and was conveniently ready for examination. Sherlock whipped out a large magnifying glass from his pocket and gave John a withering look when he let out a bark of laughter on seeing the huge glass pressed up to Sherlock's face. After that John watched him work in silence, but stayed close to the door in case anyone approached and they needed to make a hasty exit.

Sherlock began to talk as he examined the body. "As I suspected, the degree of piercing of the skin is about twenty per cent greater than in the last body. The gashes are longer and deeper, probably made with a longer knife than was used in the previous attack. The knife also has a narrower blade."

"So?" replied John impatiently.

"I have several hypothesizes, but I shall need time to collect additional data before I draw any conclusions. The abdominal injuries are more severe; she was disemboweled unlike the last victim," Sherlock explained while beginning to beckon John closer to the table. "Come here and look at her throat, John. Tell me what you can from it."

John approached, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell coming not only from this body but the others nearby. He repressed the urge to gag as he saw what Sherlock wished him to examine. Despite his war experiences, John wasn't sure if he had ever seen someone's neck so badly disfigured purely with the use of a simple blade. It looked even worse than the last body. He tried to ignore the smell as he looked at the faint discolouration on the remaining skin surrounding the gashes. He ran his finger along the skin above the gash.

"I suspect that the hyoid bone is broken, although without the appropriate scans or a full dissection I couldn't say for sure. There's also bruising here," he gestured with a finger. "It's hard to see, but definitely there. I would say that the guy tried to strangle her before slashing her throat. I'm not sure which caused her death, but chances are that he strangled her until she was too weak to fight back and then finished her off with the knife."

"Interesting," mused Sherlock. "Very interesting."

"What? Why?"

Before Sherlock could answer, the door behind them was thrown open to reveal a mortician with several undertakers beside him. John cursed himself for having moved away from the door.

"What are you two doing in here?" he asked quizzically.

"My apologies for intruding, I just wished to quickly examine the body before you arrived. You seem to be early, but no matter, I had just finished regardless."

"I don't recall seeing you here before, and no one was scheduled to look at the body, all examinations have already been conducted," the mortician said slowly.

Sherlock shot him a small smile, and John had to admire his acting ability. "I am in fact a new addition here. Mr. Baxter thought that I could get some additional experience by doing this. He also suggested I show my friend, Mr. Watson the workings here. He's a journalist you see and he is in need of an article for his weekly column."

Before the mortician had a chance to say anything else, Sherlock swept past him quickly. "My apologies once more, we shall get out of your way at once. Come my dear Watson, I can always show you around another time if you need additional information."

John found himself walking hurriedly alongside Sherlock and hissed into his ear as they quickly exited the building, "So much for not getting interrupted. I knew this would end badly. What are we going to do now?"

Sherlock shot him a bemused look. "We shall return to Baker Street at once. And then I imagine that you shall want to have some tea to calm your frazzled nerves."

While John was highly annoyed by Sherlock's remark, he did indeed consume an entire pot of tea as soon as he entered the flat half an hour later. And he refused to share it with the consulting detective. That would show him.

The next day, Sunday, John decided that he needed to tell Sherlock about his nightmares. Not because they had escalated but because he suspected that they may have something to do with their current predicament. He waited until Sherlock seemed to be in one of his better moods before he approached the topic. It ended up being towards later in the evening before the opportunity finally arose. By then an uninviting fog had begun to settle outside, and there was little for John to do except watch Sherlock use his mind palace and think about the case. John decided to speak up after dinner before he lost his nerve.

"Sherlock. I have been having… troubling nightmares," he said at last with a hint of embarrassment.

"I am aware of that. Your old war experiences seem to have been awakened by this adventure of ours."

"Well, I've been having more of them, and I'm not entirely convinced that they are about Afghanistan," said John hesitantly.

"Oh?" Sherlock's piercing grey eyes settled on John's soft brown ones, an unreadable expression in them.

"I initially thought they were, but now I'm not so sure. I think they might be, that is, I'm not entirely sure but it definitely does seem to be a possible explanation, though the details are still a bit foggy and everything –"

"John," said Sherlock with a hint of amusement. "You're rambling."

"Right. Sorry," said John, flushing slightly. "I think that they're about what happened before we got here. Before we traveled back in time."

Had Sherlock not been paying full attention before, he certainly was now. "And what exactly happens in these dreams?"

"A lot of the time I can't really remember. I forget shortly after waking up. There are just snippets that stick with me. I think that we were on a case; I keep hearing your voice saying 'Davis' and that we must leave Baker Street and find him. I can never remember what happens after that though. I just know that it's something bad. I feel like… Like I'm being crushed and I can't breathe. And it's always dark. I feel like I'll never be able to see again. It's more about how it makes me feel than any kind of specific images, which is why I began to realize that it wasn't Afghanistan I was remembering. Those were always more visual. With these, I wake up and it takes me a moment to remember that it isn't real and that I can breathe again. Even at their worst, the nightmares about Afghanistan never affected me this much."

"I didn't know that they had reached that extent," Sherlock said softly. "I suggest you keep a journal in your room so that you can write everything while it is fresh in your memory when you awake. However, I think the more pressing matter is to find a way of preventing these dreams. That they distress you to this extent is worrisome. I shall inform you when I have a viable solution. But for now, I think it would be best not to dwell on them."

John nodded. He was relieved that he was no longer bearing the burden of these dreams alone, but he was also glad to switch topic. There was nothing to be gained by discussion until they knew more about.

"Tell me what you've been doing about the case. I assume that you interviewed all the recent witnesses and Annie Chapman's family while I've been working?"

Sherlock nodded. "Like our previous victim she was a woman with a husband and family that had disintegrated. In this case, her husband was the alcoholic and he died several years ago. She had also drifted into prostitution for money. Chapman was last seen talking to a man of 'shabby-genteel' appearance with a dark complexion, who also looked foreign. That was the last person to witness her movements while she was alive. Her body was found in a nearby yard half an hour later."

"So did this 'shabby-genteel' man kill her?"

"Perhaps, although I have no conclusive proof. In addition, the description of this man is next to useless. There are a few differences in this case however. This victim was certainly murdered in the yard; her body was not moved from another location. The murder was also more vicious, and she was strangled before the knife came into play. The weapon is also different."

John paused for a moment, letting Sherlock's words sink in. "Wait, the body wasn't moved? So we could have stopped it after all?" John felt anger growing in him. "Jesus Sherlock, did you know that the whole time or were you just pretending so that I wouldn't go running after her in the middle of the night?"

Sherlock sighed tiredly, although his body showed that he was wary of John's growing anger. "No John, I did think that the body was going to be moved. But in the interest of full disclosure, I still would not have gone to the crime scene had I had that knowledge beforehand, for the same reasons I outlined to you last week."

John felt his anger receding slightly, but he would be lying if he said that he wasn't still upset at himself and Sherlock for doing nothing. His mind could accept Sherlock's argument, but his heart could not. But John was not in the mood for an argument, and he decided to move on before he and Sherlock exchanged harsh words. "So you said that the weapon was different," he said finally in a stilted voice, "are you saying that it was someone else who killed her?"

"Not necessarily," Sherlock replied, looking somewhat relieved that John had changed the topic without a fight. "It is very possible that our killer has merely evolved again since the last murder. This method of murder may give him more pleasure. But it would be foolish to assume an automatic connection between Annie and Polly's killer considering these differences. In any case, it will be difficult to say for certain until the next body emerges."

"And when will that be?" John's voice was tense again.

"The thirtieth of September. Of course I have several lines of investigation to pursue until then, but I suspect that I will require another murder in order to conclude this case satisfactorily."

As Sherlock finished speaking, they heard the sound of heavy steps on the stairs outside and the raised voice of the landlady. A few seconds later, the door was thrown open roughly and inspectors Helson and Spratling entered with another officer.

"Mr. Holmes," sneered one of the inspectors, although John had honestly forgotten which one was which. Sherlock and John remained seated, Sherlock with a defiant expression and John with a puzzled one.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Sherlock asked disinterestedly.

"We have some questions to ask you Mr. Holmes," answered the other inspector. "What exactly were you doing in the morgue with your friend here yesterday morning?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied.

"Don't play dumb with me sir!" the Inspector thundered, a vein protruding worryingly from his forehead. "I spoke to the mortician who saw you. I recognized his description of you straightaway. He said that he saw a strange fellow, who was out of place. He said that you don't work there, and Mr. Baxter had certainly never heard your neat little story. When I told him of my encounter with you, he was certain that you are the same man."

"I reiterate, I was not there, nor can you prove that I was."

"Well since you're being uncooperative, I'll move onto my next question. Where were you the night that Annie Chapman was murdered? And Mary Ann Nichols?"

John's mouth dropped open in shock. "You're not serious? You think he's a suspect?"

"That's exactly what we're thinking Mr. Watson," replied the taller inspector. "Mr. Holmes has shown an unnatural interest in this case. Interviewing witnesses, going to crime scenes, looking into possibly connected cases from months ago. And I checked with The Times - you aren't a reporter there and never have been. Mr. Watson may be a reporter, but you certainly aren't. So, why the unnatural interest? And how do you seem to know all these facts about the case that we're keeping under lock and key? So I ask you again, where were you on the nights in question?"

John was about to proclaim that Sherlock was with him in his room on the night of Annie's murder and that they weren't present at the time of Polly's death, but before he could do so, Sherlock shot him a murderous glare. John shut his mouth promptly, initially clueless as to why Sherlock didn't want him to speak. Then the implications of the consequences of two men being discovered to be sharing a bedroom in Victorian London struck home. His face reddened and he saw Sherlock relax slightly as he read John's body language, knowing that the point had been very much understood.

"I have no ready alibi, Inspector. As I'm sure you are delighted to hear."

"Mr. Holmes," said the Inspector with a bilious grin. "I must say that's the best news I've heard all week." He removed a set of handcuffs from one of his pockets and moved behind Sherlock, who had now stood, and snapped them onto his wrists. "Mr. Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Annie Chapman and Mary Ann Nichols." He turned to look icily at John. "Although we have nothing against you Mr. Watson, I suggest that you tread carefully from now on unless you wish to join your friend in prison. Enjoy the remainder of your evening."

John opened his mouth to argue and intervene, but Sherlock shot him a significant glance before he was bustled out the door. "Do nothing, Watson. Meet me at the prison tomorrow morning and I shall give you instructions then."

Sherlock was then pushed out of the door and John was left standing alone in the middle of the living room, wondering just what the hell he was going to do now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up in Chapter 6: Neither man can cope well in the absence of the other, John tries to carry on the case but finds it difficult to juggle Sherlock, his job and his nightmares all at once. On top of this, John finds an interesting article in the newspaper and accidentally interrupts something that perhaps he should not have seen.


End file.
